


The First Touch

by Castiel_For_King



Series: A Study in Sex [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom!Sherlock, First Time, Gentle John, Hand Jobs, John is a bit dom, M/M, Naive Sherlock, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Sherlock Has Issues, Sherlock is very sensitive to physical contact, Virgin Sherlock, just a little, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 19:47:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4577580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castiel_For_King/pseuds/Castiel_For_King
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to be with John as much as John wants to be with him...there's just one problem.  As it turns out, sex does alarm him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Touch

Sherlock resisted the urge to fidget under John's contemplative gaze – but only just. He was used to being stared at with all manner of bemusing expressions but _this_ look from _John_ was making him – he sneered – _uncomfortable_.

No, it wasn't just that, Sherlock realized. He took a fraction of a second to examine the way his muscles coiled in an attempt to release some static energy and how it felt like there was a snake writhing in his abdomen. He felt oddly... _exposed_ . Yes, that is what was making his skin crawl; he felt as if he'd fallen into a bathtub full of ants. One of his very carefully crafted layers had just been peeled back to expose the soft, pink, _vulnerable_ flesh underneath.

His fingers twitched where his hand rested on his knee.

 _'Stupid Sally Donovan.'_  It sounded childish even in his own head, and Sherlock's eyes flicked over to John, illogically worried that he might have said the words out loud.

“Tea?” the doctor asked, still with that strange, calculating weight to his gaze that just made Sherlock want to curl into a ball.

Sherlock found himself wondering – somewhat belatedly to be sure – if this was how everyone felt when he was unable to help spitting their life stories out after a quick glance, as if they didn't know it already. Sometimes he couldn't help himself. Sometimes something happened between his brain and his tongue and his thoughts just sort of...came out his mouth, and it always happened so fast that by the time he realized what he'd done – again – someone was either crying or trying to punch him in the face.

“No. Thank you.” he managed to bite.

John disappeared into the kitchen and Sherlock finally pulled his gaze away from the man's broad shoulders. As always, John Watson was impossible for him to read. On a good day he'd always had a difficult time deducing emotions and thoughts from people. There were no hard facts to read from sadness or anger or any of the other tedious things human's had been burdened with _feeling_. But John – ever the soldier – gave nothing away at all. It frustrated Sherlock to no end, especially now that...well. He shifted, feeling blood rush to his face and cursing the rebelliousness of his body.

Four days ago something unexpected and altogether bloody _revolutionary_ had happened.

John had _kissed_ him.

It had been sudden and raw while they were catching their breath after a nasty end to an even nastier case. John had pushed him up against the wall in the entry way as if he weighed nothing, one strong hand splayed against his chest, and Sherlock had felt as pinned as if someone had driven an iron spike through his ribs and into the wall.

He'd been confused at first, for the split second before John was crowding into his personal space, panting hot breath over his face, the faint smell of his aftershave from that morning and the heavier scent of sweat and earth from their night dashing through the back alley's of London had slithered up his nostrils and curled around his brain, constricting like a snake and, for the first time in his life, Sherlock found the noise in his head screeching to a halt. All the bits and pieces of debris that swirled in a constant whirlwind in his mind had been suspended like fruit in a jello mould and then John's lips were against his, hot and soft and tasting like tea.

And then, just like that, the foreign calm in his brain exploded in a roar of a sudden influx of information and Sherlock was sent spiralling.

John's hand was bleeding heat through his thin shirt; heat that was sparking into his lungs and igniting into flames that gobbled up all the oxygen and made it hard to breathe. The weight on his chest increased as John pushed closer and it soothed the fire licking at his insides, cooling it to a safer more comfortable warmth and when he felt the swipe of a tongue against the seam of his lips, his focus was jerked upwards from the coals in his belly to the electric shocks dancing between their lips and he gasped into John's mouth, startled by the abrupt shift.

Then John's other hand was under his coat and sliding over his hip and pushing around to press against the dip in his spine and the tentative attempt to organize everything he was feeling crumbled like a demolished building, filling his head with a cloud of dust that made it impossible to _think_ and a jab of panic had tugged at his gut like a fish hook.

It had taken him more time than he'd like to admit to realize that he could no longer feel the warmth of John's proximity and he opened his eyes – the dust in his head settling now that it was no longer being kicked up by the whirlwind that was _John_ – and saw the doctor watching him with a concerned expression. A concerned expression that was only barely masking the hurt underneath.

“Jesus, Sherlock, I'm sorry.” John had said, taking another step back from him. “I'm sorry, I didn't - wasn't thinking, I -”

Sherlock reached for the doctor, his too pale fingers circling uncertainly around John's wrist. He wanted to tell John that it was alright; that he didn't mind; that underneath the staggering onslaught of new – and somewhat terrifying – sensations that he'd... _enjoyed_ the weight of the other man pressing against him and the warmth of his touch and the smell of his skin and the taste of his lips and –

Pulling his mind back, Sherlock felt the heat in his face flare with the vivid memory and he resisted the urge to sink back into the couch, though he could not stop his tongue darting out to taste his own lips, chasing the sweet ghostly aftertaste of _John_.

They'd not done anything – or discussed anything – since then. Hadn't had the chance. After the two of them had said a somewhat awkward goodnight they'd crashed into their respective beds only to be woken a few hours later by another text – another case – from Lestrade.

But now they were back in the flat, the adrenaline had worn off and John was behaving strangely.

At that moment the man in question came back into the living room with a steaming mug of tea in his hand and Sherlock glanced down at it, wishing he hadn't declined the offer of his own cup. He could smell the tea from where he sat, sweet and saccharine despite the fact that John didn't actually take sugar, and remembered how it had tasted on John's lips.

He shifted on the sofa, the soft flannel of his pajama bottoms shifting against his skin.

“Can I ask you something?” John asked. His voice was unusually gentle but after the stretch of silence it sounded too loud and Sherlock jerked reflexively.

He cleared his throat, wishing the heat in his face would go away already. “'Course.” he muttered.

Looking at John in that moment was out of the question. With what he'd been thinking about the last ten minutes there was no way he could look the doctor in the eye without turning the color of a tomato and he'd already embarrassed himself enough in front of the man.

“What happened the other day...” John began, sounding hesitant but determined, “...when I kissed you. Was that alright?”

It was a strange way to phrase the question and it made Sherlock's brows twitch in the beginnings of a frown. The instant response of 'yes!' caught in his throat and he swallowed, wondering if that was what John really wanted to hear.

' _Of course he would. He kissed you after all. People don't kiss other people unless they want to kiss them more than just the once...right?_ ' Sherlock had never felt so out of his depth before. ' _If that were true then the term of 'one night stand' probably wouldn't be as popular as it is.'_

Was that all John had been after? One night? An easy outlet for an excess of adrenaline after a sketchy case? The thought made Sherlock's insides twist in a curiously sickening way and he slid a hand over his stomach.

The movement did not go unnoticed by John and Sherlock was pulled out of his thoughts when he saw the doctor's attention shift from his face to his midsection.

“Sherlock?”

There was something else there, stopping him from saying yes, and it wasn't only his uncertainty of what John wanted from him but the fact that he'd have to admit that he'd liked it. He'd _liked_ being touched by John. He'd _liked_ the weight of John's hand and the press of his lips, so much so that it had been frighteningly overwhelming. It was a weakness and one part of him didn't want to admit it. The other part just wanted _more_.

When he dared to look back at John, sitting straight backed in his chair, Sherlock was dismayed to see a stony look of resignation settling over his face.

“It...” he swallowed, shoving the sickening feeling of _vulnerability_ aside for the moment. He did not want John to look at him like that, not when he knew how to fix it. “It was good.” he managed, the words tumbling out too fast.

John looked at him sharply, some of the hard lines around his eyes softening. But he was frowning now, as if he didn't really believe what Sherlock was saying.

Sherlock swallowed, eyes darting up, snapping this way and that over John's face before he dropped them to his hands. “It was _very_ good.”

Even though he wasn't looking right at him, Sherlock could see the tension leave John in his suddenly loose movements and some of the anxiety squirming in his gut eased back, letting him breathe. Then suddenly John was sinking into the sofa beside him and his gaze was heavy enough that Sherlock's body seemed to think he needed more blood in his face – again – and he huffed, looking away.

This wasn't a normal reaction to having someone near you, Sherlock knew this. It wasn't normal to get overwhelmed from just a kiss. It wasn't _normal_ to feel sick to his stomach at the thought of admitting he liked it; that he wanted more of it but didn't know how to handle it.

“Could you look at me please?” John asked him.

The doctor's tone was as light as the hand he placed on Sherlock's arm. The detective quickly glanced down at their point of contact, glad he'd chosen a long sleeved shirt to sleep in – the idea of skin on skin was a bit too much to contemplate at the moment – and then couldn't help looking up into John's patient stare.

“But?” the doctor prompted.

Distracted by the warmth seeping through the thin layer of fabric separating his skin from John's, Sherlock frowned. “But?” he echoed, his focus snagging on three pale freckles clustered just off the corner of John's right eye.

The object of his scrutiny smiled – nothing more than a small curl of his lips – but it managed to grab Sherlock's attention none the less and he found himself staring at John's mouth. He knew what those lips felt like now. Soft and warm and tasting like tea.

He mentally gave himself a firm shake, John was talking again, his pink lips curving around his words.

“What?” Sherlock asked, closing his eyes firmly so as not to be distracted again.

John huffed a small laugh. “I was saying that it sounded like there is something you aren't telling me. You said it was good that I kissed you,” John's hand tightened around his arm. “But there's something else.”

A seed of frustration took root in Sherlock's chest. John was always most observant when Sherlock least wanted him to be.

“Please talk to me, Sherlock.” John pleaded in that soft, soothing tone that annoyed Sherlock – but only because he actually found it soothing, could feel the knotts in his stomach loosening.

How did John _do_ that, anyway?

“Has it something to do with what Donovan said earlier?”

He could feel his muscles going rigid but could do nothing to hide it, and something cold and dark was filling the space behind his ribs at the reminder of what had happened at Scotland Yard a mere few hours ago. His lip curled in disdain.

“That was nothing I am not used to.” He snapped, staring straight ahead.

Sally had seemed in a particularly foul mood when they'd presented Lestrade with the evidence they'd needed to wrap the case up. Evidence she had failed to produce, yet again shown up by Sherlock Holmes, and for some reason she seemed more bitter about it than usual. She'd thrown around her usual repertoire of insults, firing off words like 'freak' and 'abnormal' like they were bullets. They had pinged off Sherlock's heavy armor like they always did but then she'd hissed something sharp as he and John turned to leave, her words slipping between his defences like a knife between armor plates.

It had been something about dying alone or being alone or something similar. He'd managed to delete it quickly enough, but the sting of it still lingered. Like finding a bruise and not remembering how you got it – not remembering _how_ it happened doesn't change the fact that it bloody hurts.

“So what is it that's bothering you, then?” John pressed. His thumb was doing interesting things now, dragging back and forth over the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

Steeling himself, Sherlock confessed. Keeping him in the dark about matters such as this after what had happened between them would be cruel. John deserved his honesty in this – even if it made him feel sick to admit it out loud.

“It was...overwhelming.” he mumbled, half hoping John hadn't heard him.

He turned his face away – and closed his eyes for good measure – head rolling against the back of the couch. He waited for John to start laughing, waited for John to tell him how ridiculous it was that he'd gotten overwhelmed by a simple kiss.

“Ok.”

His eyes flew open and he turned sharply to look at John, shock numbing the queasy feeling in his stomach. He was wearing his ' _you're being an idiot but I'm a patient man_ ' face and Sherlock sat up straighter, mind racing in an attempt to figure out what John saw that he did not.

It could not be as simple as that. There was no way that John could so calmly accept the abnormality Sherlock had just admitted. John was a sexual man. He enjoyed sex and had it a lot – as often as he could from what Sherlock had been able to observe – there was no way he could be so calm about this. He'd shown an obviously sexual interest in kissing him and Sherlock wondered if perhaps he wasn't being clear enough. Maybe the reason John had yet to let go of his arm or lose that patient smile was because he didn't understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

The detective cleared his throat, trying to find the right words to make sure John understood.

“I've never done...anything like this before.” he said, wishing his voice didn't sound so strained. Wishing he could look John in the eye – he'd never had trouble with it before. “There was too much...” the words he needed would not come to mind and he made a frustrated noise, gesturing to his body and then his head with a nonsensical twirl of his free hand. “Too much.” he repeated weakly.

“Ok.” John said again, but this time it was cautious, and his thumb had stilled against Sherlock's arm. “So when you say you've never done anything like this before, you mean...” he trailed off, seemingly taking a minute to rethink his choice of words. “No one has ever touched you like that.”

It wasn't phrased as a question, so he knew that John finally understood what he meant now, but he shook his head anyway.

“So we need to take it slow, is what you're saying.” John said matter-of-factly.

Something akin to surprise and – dare he say it – hope, flared sharply in Sherlock's chest and he snapped his head up to stare at the other man, reading that same quiet patience in John's face as if it had never left. Maybe it hadn't.

“You...you still want to...” he trailed off again, unable to finish asking the question, still too scared of the answer.

“You know, I don't think I've ever seen you struggle to get words out like this before. Usually I can't get you to shut up.” John's smirk was soft, teasing, and Sherlock felt his own lips twitching. “And to answer the question you failed to ask, yeah, I still want to.” John's smile faded and his eyes softened, his hand leaving Sherlock's arm to reach up and push an errant curl off the detective's forehead. “More than you could probably understand right now.”

John's fingers brushed the skin near his temple and it tickled pleasantly. When those fingers trailed down the side of his face Sherlock found himself turning into the touch, his lips parting around a sigh when John's calloused thumb stroked across his cheekbone.

“Would it be alright if I kissed you now?” John asked softly.

Sherlock hadn't been aware that he'd closed his eyes until he had to open them. John's gaze was warm and his smile was reassuring and his lips looked soft and probably tasted like tea again now that he'd had a cup and Sherlock found himself nodding, butterflies fluttering against the cage of his ribs.

John kept his hand against the side of Sherlock's face, guiding him to turn his head.

When their lips met it felt as if they had never parted and Sherlock gasped against the onslaught of sensation. John's breath was all it took to fan life back into the coals low in his belly but they did not turn into flames like last time, licking at his insides like he was going to burn up. It was easier to keep his head clear, the fog of sensation pushing in on him but not as hard and fast as last time.

John's lips moved slowly against his, his strong, calloused fingers sliding slow but steady into his wavy black hair and _that_ sparked an instant spiderweb of tiny sparks that seemed to canvas his entire scalp, shooting through his skull and pinging around inside his head like pinballs.   He gasped, his lips parting, and then John's tongue was _in_ his mouth, pushing against his own tongue, sliding slick and hot, and their breath was mixing between them and John's hand was tightening in his hair, sending sharper shocks into his skull.

The fog was pushing in on him again, filling his brain, and all the different sensations he was desperately trying to keep separate were beginning to fuse together. The electricity jumping from the fingers in his hair was trickling down and sparking with the static leaping off John's tongue, which was pressing firm and commanding into Sherlock's mouth in a way that made the coals sitting low in his belly burn white hot.

John's other hand was suddenly on his thigh and Sherlock startled violently, feeling as if a bolt of lightning had shot right up his femoral artery and into his heart.

John pulled back immediately but the hand he had in Sherlock's hair stayed. “It's ok.” John reassured, breathing more heavily than normal. “You're alright.” he leaned forward and pressed their foreheads together, fingers rubbing at the detective's scalp.

Sherlock willed his breathing to steady, but couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs. As it was last time, it was easier to think when John wasn't kissing him and slowly but surely he felt his heart rate slowing and the fog dissipating.

“God, look at you.” John said, pulling back far enough to focus on the detective's face. He brought his free hand up and stroked across Sherlock's brow and then down over his cheekbone and then slipped further to brush the back of his knuckles over the soft, pale skin of his throat.

Sherlock shuddered under the soft, gentle touches, finally looking up at John's face.

The doctor's pupils were already blown wide and there was a light flush in his cheeks but he looked much more together than Sherlock felt and he groaned, feeling the heat of embarrassment adding to the heat of arousal under his skin. He twisted, dislodging John's hand from his hair, and pressed his face against the cool leather of the couch, suddenly wishing he could hide.

“Sherlock, hey,” John's hand – the very one that had been on his thigh a minute ago – pressed to the side of his face not pushed into the sofa. “Sherlock, please don't hide from me.”

“Not hiding.” he grumbled into the back of the sofa. John's hands were still doing the most distracting of things – despite the fact that they really weren't moving all that much – the roughened pads of his fingers dragging softly through his hair were managing to keep him just on this side of the fog and it was both pleasant and frightening how effectively John managed to send his mind reeling with seemingly little effort.

“Alright?” John asked him, his voice quiet.

No, he was _not_ alright. “Yes.” He could feel John's gaze heavy and hot on the side of his face and he scrunched his eyes shut harder, the sickening twist in his gut of feeling utterly exposed making him grimace.

“Sherlock...” John sighed his name, but it didn't sound impatient, like the detective would have expected, instead the doctor simply sounded a little sad. “Sherlock, tell me what you're thinking. Am I...is _this_ making you uncomfortable?”

“No, John, no, please do not think that.” Sherlock pleaded with the man, finally working up the strength to open his eyes, and turned his face away from the back of the sofa to look at John. Eye contact was the least he could do after he'd made John feel so worried. Again. He wished he was one of those people who could easily translate feeling and emotion in to words – this new thing between him and John might not be so painful and confusing otherwise.

But he wasn't. He simply wasn't. More often then not Sherlock wasn't even sure what it was that he was feeling – most especially when it was John causing him to feel it – and the thought of trying to describe a mental sensation he didn't understand was laughable.

John's dark blue eyes were swimming with worry and uncertainty now and Sherlock grabbed the doctor's strong hand, the one that had been gently carding through his hair seconds ago, and brought their joined hands up to his mouth so that he could press his lips to John's knuckles.

“I'm sorry, John.” he whispered against the doctor's hand. “I don't know how to do this.”

“Is that all that's bothering you?” John sounded as if he knew the answer already but some of the turmoil had receded from his gaze again.

He owed it to John, he knew he did, and swallowing the lump in his throat, Sherlock resolved to at least try to explain it all.

“I'm...nervous.” he started, the word floating right out of his mouth and he paused, realizing that it actually fit quite well. Feeling a little more confident, he continued. “I'm nervous...because I don't know what to do or what you're going to do or how I'm expected to respond or react. I've never done this before and I don't...I don't want to mess it up.”

He finished and chanced a shy glance up at John. Something warm and soothing swelled in his chest when he saw nothing but fondness in the blue eyed gaze.

“Well,” John started, his tongue darting out to taste the gentle smile on his lips, “If I may address the issues in order. It's ok if you don't know what to do, Sherlock, because I can show you. As for being worried about what I'm going to do...I won't do anything you don't want to do or that your not comfortable doing.” John's thumb was rubbing circles on his thigh again. “I don't expect anything from you, Sherlock. I just...I just truly enjoy being with you in any sense – it's fine if you don't want to take things farther than kissing and touching. It's all fine.”

Some of the unease that had been writhing low in his gut ebbed and Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth pull.

“I like making you blush.” John teased.

“I'm not blushing.”

“You are.”

Sherlock scowled. He knew he was bloody well blushing and the fact that John had noticed it too was just making the heat in his face intensify. Damn his fair complexion!

John was suddenly rolling his lip between his teeth, blue eyes growing dark as they flicked back and forth across the detective's face before they settled firmly on his lips.

And suddenly the memory of John's mouth moving against his, still vivid and fresh in his mind, had Sherlock tipping his chin up, his long fingers snagging hesitantly in the front of John's jumper, irrationally worried that maybe that wasn't something he was allowed to do. But John was smiling gently, encouragingly, his expression soft.

“It's ok, Sherlock.” the doctor reassured him, his fingers smoothing down the back of the hand Sherlock had fisted in his jumper.

He decided to take the words at face value and, with a cloud of butterflies beating against his ribs, he leaned up and pressed his lips to John's.

 

* * *

 

It's another two, long, agonizing days before Sherlock finds occasion to be able to touch John again. They'd been called away on a case and had run themselves to the point of exhaustion...but now they were home and freshly showered and Sherlock's very bones felt weary, like they'd been hollowed out and filled with sand, and he draped himself over the sofa like a wet towel.

“Tea.” John suddenly said, close to his head.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked just in time to see the doctor set down a steaming mug on the coffee table but then his eyes were sliding shut again when he felt strong fingers in his hair. He sighed, feeling some of the weight seep from his bones.

John moved away and Sherlock opened his eyes unhappily, his scalp tingling pleasantly with the ghost of John's touch. Then the doctor was tapping his pajama clad thigh and he pulled his knees to his chest so that John could sit down. With a grin, he placed his legs over John's lap as soon as the man was settled and merely cocked a brow when John shot him a playful scowl.

“I was here first.” Sherlock protested.

John hummed and grabbed the remote off the arm of the sofa, turning the TV on but not bothering to flip through the channels to find something interesting. Instead, as soon as he'd tossed the remote down again, John's blue eyes went right to the detective's face and then his hands settled side by side, high up Sherlock's thigh, and _squeezed_.

Sherlock was gasping around the suddenness of the sensation before he even knew what he was doing. Tiny little fingers wormed out from under John's hands and tickled all the way up his leg and straight to his crotch and Sherlock slapped a hand down on top of John's, those tiny, tickling, skittering, phantom fingers travelling up through his stomach, shooting through his chest and then wrapping around the base of his skull.

“Jesus,” John breathed, his hands twitching against Sherlock's thigh. “You're so sensitive.” He pushed one hand slowly upwards, bleeding heat through the thin flannel pants, his eyes sharp and focused, watching Sherlock's face like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

Sparks were jumping along Sherlock's nerves and liquid heat was pooling low in his belly like a whirlpool and the detective's head was swimming already. He breathed deep, trying to keep his head clear but John's hand was inching closer and closer to his hardening cock and against his will, his mind spit forth an image of the doctor's strong hand wrapped around him.

A groan shuddered from deep in his chest at the image and just then John's touch lightened, barely grazing the front of Sherlock's pyjama bottoms, but it had the detective biting back a cry, his breath hitching and his hips twitching up in anticipation all on their own.

John's hand passed over his hardening cock again, firmer this time – enough to drag the soft flannel over the detectives skin – and it was like someone had lit a sparkler inside his pelvis, a soft cry of surprise at the new and intense sensations escaped his throat and for several long seconds, John's hand stopped moving, just rested there, heavy and warm, until Sherlock managed to get his breathing under control.

When he opened his eyes he swallowed under John's heated, lidded gaze. The doctor's eyes were lust blown and he was biting his lip harshly, fingers twitching over Sherlock's erection. As soon as he realized Sherlock had gotten used to the feeling of someone touching him there, John's lips twitched with a gentle, fond smile, and then he pushed the flat of his palm up the detective's cock.

Sherlock gasped and his knees twitched in opposite directions. It was completely involuntary and only a few inches of movement but John saw it all the same and his gaze grew impossibly dark. The doctor shifted, leaning back and ducking under Sherlock's long leg so that it was wedged between John's side and the back of the couch, settling easily between his knees.

Heat rushed to his face when it registered that John was actually sitting between his legs. John, who's eyes were dark and hungry. John, who's hand was still pressing between Sherlock's legs, firm and patient and so, so warm.

Then John's other hand was pushing up the leg not pressed into the back of the couch. His palm wide and fingers curling over the top of the detective's lean muscle. And then gentle pressure, urging him to spread his thighs wider.

Yet more new sensations, but this time the tingles and the sparks seemed to be both physical and mental and when Sherlock hesitantly allowed his legs to fall open, the pleasant tingles turned to sharp needles. That feeling of intense, sickening _vulnerability_ was back and even though he was still fully clothed, Sherlock felt more exposed than he could ever remember. Here, with John's hand on his cock, his legs spread and lying on his back, Sherlock was more open to...to...

John would never hurt him...but he could if he wanted to, especially in this moment.

But that wasn't all. What it all came back to was the fact that Sherlock was doing something he'd never done. He was showing something to John that he'd never shown to anyone. He was telling the truth now where he had lied, lied, _lied_ before. He was human. He _liked_ it when John touched him. He _liked_ how good it felt, but after a lifetime of keeping that part of himself hidden, suddenly letting someone see it...

“It's alright, Sherlock.” John said gently, pulling him out of his thoughts.

The doctor moved forward, slowly, like he was quite worried the detective was going to bolt on him any second and Sherlock felt John's hips pressing up against his backside. He was warm and much more solid than his outward appearance would suggest and just the feel of his reassuring weight and presence was enough to quiet the roiling in Sherlock's stomach.

“That's it, Sherlock,” John whispered, one hand still on the detective's thigh, the other still resting over his cock. He inched closer, settling snug against the detective's bottom. So snugly, that Sherlock was able to feel the doctor's hardness. “Just breath, Love, you're alright.”

Sherlock nodded absently, taking in the feel of John's muscled thighs under his and - he shifted – feeling the long, hot length of John's erection under the layers of flannel.

John felt...big.

But he couldn't think about that now because John's hand was moving over his cock again and it was all he could do hold back the groan that wanted to escape his chest.  Sherlock Holmes did not squirm – but the muscles all along his back and down his legs were clenching and releasing and he couldn't seem to stop them. His hips twitched upward when John's hand pressed down on his cock and his back arched off the couch and was the air getting thinner in the living room or was it just him?

“ _John..._ ” the name eased past his lips in a moan, his hips rolling upwards to press harder into John's warm touch.

“Sherlock...Sherlock, look at me.”

The detective opened his eyes just enough to find John's, his cock aching and his chest tight with the need for something...something _more_.

John's hand moved away, just enough to hook his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's pajamas, his gaze questioning.

Sherlock nodded, unable to voice an answer, his gut swooping at the thought of John's hand on him with nothing in the way.

“Ok.” John visibly swallowed, his fingers pushing a little farther. “If it gets too intense, _tell me_.” He ordered firmly.

Sherlock was about to reply with something snarky but just then John's fingertips brushed the head of his cock and he choked on the words. The warm, summer-laden air of the apartment felt cool against his skin when John tugged the waistband of his pants down, exposing him.

It added a whole other layer to the feeling of vulnerability the detective was feeling, and he squirmed under John's intense gaze.

“Alright?” the doctor asked, one calloused hand pressing down on the crease between Sherlock's thigh and pelvis, very deliberately _not_ touching his bare cock.

Sherlock nodded quickly, feeling like he was lying. In all honesty, he couldn't really tell if he was alright or not. On the one hand, he longed for John to touch him, on the other hand, the desire to run felt equally as strong and he felt frozen in place.

John's fingers slipped around him, but the doctor's cobalt blue eyes stayed glued to the detective's face. At least, they did for as long as Sherlock was able to keep his own eyes open...which wasn't long at all. As soon as John's warm grip encircled his cock it was like he'd touched a live wire and electricity arced through Sherlock's body from his toes to his head and it tore a strangled cry from his throat, his knees drawing up instinctively to give John better access.

The doctor's other hand was pressed against his sternum, thumb swiping slowly back and forth across Sherlock's skin and the detective used the steady pressure to try and stay grounded, but John's calloused hand tightened around his cock and pulled up, up, _up_ over the head and he gasped, all the air rushing from his lungs.

John was talking to him, praise falling from his lips, but the words merely rolled off Sherlock like water off a duck's back – he simply no longer possessed to faculties to process anything but the sensations the older man was causing him and it should have been terrifying, this loss of control and concentration, but he didn't have the capacity to care at the moment.

The pressure of John's hand left his stomach but reappeared seconds later, the pad of his thumb pressing up firmly against his perineum at the same time his fist squeezed around the head of his cock and then there was nothing but white noise between Sherlock's ears. He blindly reached over his head to grip the arm rest, desperately trying not to shake apart. John's touches and the sensations he was causing coalesced into a full body climax, pleasure roaring through Sherlock's body, almost unbearable in it's intensity.

Just when he thought he was full to bursting with sensations; just when he thought he was going to go mad, John _squeezed_ and did _something_ else that Sherlock couldn't even describe and suddenly he was being pushed through a worm hole, stars bursting behind his eyelids and he screamed, shaking, his muscles locking.

It was over in a matter of seconds or hours– it was hard to tell – and slowly but surely, things outside of what had just happened started filtering back through Sherlock's wrung out senses. He was breathing quite hard, he realized and his head was spinning from it. His muscles felt like jello but getting his fingers to release their vice-like grip on the arm of the sofa took great effort.

John's hand was still wrapped loosely around his softening cock, the touch just this side of _too much_ and well on the other side of possessive; making a deep, hot flush spread through Sherlock's stomach.

When he realized he still had his eyes closed, Sherlock forced them open, finding John's face at once.

“There's a good lad.” John welcomed him back, sounding a little breathless himself. “How do you feel?”

It took an embarrassingly long time for Sherlock to catalogue what he was feeling – though to be fair, John's hands were still distracting him, one rubbing up and down his lean thigh where it was hooked over John's, the other easing off his over-sensitive cock.

“Heavy, tired, a little bit high.” Sherlock answered definitively, his breathing finally coming under control.

“You look it.” John said around a grin.

Sherlock could still feel the hard line of John's cock pushing against him and he gave an experimental squirm, delighted when John's mouth dropped into an 'o' and the doctor gave a little groan.

The detective had planned on doing it again but John's hand pressed down against his abdomen with enough strength to keep him still and another wave of unexpected heat washed like a flash flood through Sherlock's gut and his mind reeled. How could such a simple gesture be so unbelievably...arousing?

“I think that's quite enough excitement for you today.” John said, showing remarkable control of his voice – it barely shook, even through Sherlock could feel the doctor's thigh muscles twitching.

A protest was on his lips but John quite suddenly leaned over him and kissed it away, along with anything else Sherlock had been thinking. A strong hand pushed between the back of his head and the couch cushions, sliding through his hair and cradling his head as John's tongue pushed, soft and unhurried, into his mouth.

Still feeling sated and happy and a little slow, Sherlock allowed his own hands to wander, one sliding up the solid column of John's arm where it was pressing down on the cushion next to his head, holding the doctor's weight. The other pushing over John's ribs and around his back, feeling along the ridges of muscle. He took a moment to pull back, letting the weight of his head settle in John's palm as he licked the taste of the man off his lips.

He wiggled his arse against John's crotch again and the doctor bit off a groan, shifting his weight.

“Sherlock -”

“Can you teach me?” Sherlock asked, blinking owlishly up at John. “What you did to me...can you teach me how to do that to you?” he desperately wanted to learn.  Data, data, data, that's what he needed.

Being as close as they were, it was no surprise that Sherlock was able to see John's pupils swell immediately, black crowding out blue like spilled ink. He was quite sure he knew what John's answer would be but he waited patiently for it all the same.

John closed his eyes and hauled a slow breath through his nose, a muscle jumping in his jaw. It was what he did when he was trying to wrangle an urge to do something reckless – like punch a police officer in the face – into submission and Sherlock felt a thrill of something electric race up his spine.

“Yeah...” John finally breathed, opening his eyes, gaze snapping this way and that over the detective's face, like he was starving and Sherlock was something particularly appetizing. “Yeah, I can teach you.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I like how this turned out...feels a little rough to me but I couldn't flesh it out any more...*sigh*. Oh well...anyway, this series will be updated as the urge to write fluffy Johnlock porn comes to me. There is no schedule. 
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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